


I Am Not There. I Do Not Sleep.

by rainydaysanddustybooks94



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Immortality, Reincarnation, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydaysanddustybooks94/pseuds/rainydaysanddustybooks94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is immortal. It was a secret he had hid from Les Amis de l'ABC. When he was shot with Enjolras, he did not die. Instead, he wandered the world, grieving for his friends. Every year, on the anniversary of their deaths, he returns to the Musain, which by some act of God, is still standing. Fast forward to 2013, and he is hit with an ugly surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Not There. I Do Not Sleep.

Tugging at the sleeves of his black hoodie, Grantaire opened the door to the Musain. Keeping his gaze lowered, he quietly approached the counter and ordered a black coffee and a blueberry muffin.

            “Here you go, hon,” the woman behind the counter said, handing him his order. Grantaire glanced up to thank her, only to cringe. She looked almost exactly like Musichetta. He breathed carefully through the pain crushing his chest. Hurriedly, he retreated into the corner. The only reason he was not blackout drunk was out of respect for his old friends, and the fact that he had been drunk into a stupor while they had died. Despondently, he began picking apart his muffin. His eyes kept straying to the floor, where they had all been laid out. Éponine, Gavroche, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan…All except…Grantaire’s eyes wandered to the window, where Enjolras had been hanging when he left the building. Grantaire gagged, choking down the last bit of the muffin.

            “Do you know the man in the corner?” Grantaire heard someone whisper. He didn’t bother looking up.

            “No, not really. He apparently comes here every year, on this date. Always wearing black, always orders the same thing, and always looks like he’s grieving. He’s been coming here for so long, there’s actually a myth that he’s been coming here since the French Revolution,” the woman behind the counter murmured. Grantaire recoiled, before suddenly jumping out of his seat. He couldn’t stay any longer, he couldn’t-

            “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, oh!” Grantaire stumbled as someone bumped into him, dropping his coffee onto the floor.

            “It’s okay, I wasn’t,” Grantaire fell silent. Jehan stood before him. _Jehan._ He was…different…but it was assuredly Jehan.

            “Are you okay? You’ve gone rather pale,” Jehan fretted. Grantaire swallowed convulsively, mind gibbering in shock. _JehanJehanJehanJehan’saliveJehan’salive-_

            “Jehan, come on, we’re about to start! Who’re you talking to?” Grantaire started, staring first at the young man with curly black hair and a bright smile, then at the people behind him. There sat- _everyone._ Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Combeferre, and, and,

            “Shit!” Courfeyrac yelped as Grantaire crumpled. He pressed his forehead to his knees, sobbing. He clutched at his hair, unable to stop the cries wrenched from his chest. Someone’s arm carefully wrapped around his shoulders.

            “What happened?” Bahorel asked, joining them. He crouched next to Courfeyrac, staring at Grantaire. Grantaire hiccupped when he noticed the birthmark on Bahorel’s forehead, right where he’d been shot. With a low moan, Grantaire asked himself,

            “Am I dead? Have I joined the ranks of those eternally asleep at last?” Without realizing it, he had slipped into the older French. Alarmed looks were exchanged.

            “I’ll get Combeferre. ‘Chetta said he comes here every year, today, grieving,” Jehan said from next to Grantaire. His arm left Grantaire’s shoulders, and he whined.

            “No, please, don’t, I’m sorry, please.” _Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t disappear._

            “Shh, dude, it’s okay, Combeferre is one of our friends, he can help,” Courfeyrac said, clasping his shoulder. Jehan and Combeferre returned, Combeferre holding a glass of water in his hands. Grantaire stared at him. He had short, mousy brown hair, just like before, and glasses that slid down his nose. Even the expression of concern and politeness was the same.

            “Drink this,” Combeferre ordered. Shakily, Grantaire downed it in one gulp. The iciness froze his insides, and jolted Grantaire out of his panic attack. He was not dead. His friends did not recognize him. They thought he was some stranger, having a sort of breakdown. Grantaire tugged at his hair, exhaling forcefully. For some reason, Les Amis de l’ABC were before him, in the year 2013, with seemingly no recognition of him, nor their past lives. And here he was, crying, asking if he was dead. Some first impression. Bracing himself, Grantaire rocked back onto his heels. He forced down every emotion at the sight of them staring at him, placing a fake smile on his face.

            “I apologize,” he croaked, voice rough from the violent sobbing, “I…Today is the anniversary of my…my family’s deaths. And you, you.” Grantaire’s voice cracked and his hands spasmed into fists. “You all look very much like them.” Jehan let out a wounded noise, throwing his arms around Grantaire and tugging him into a hug. Grantaire went willingly, dropping his head to Jehan’s shoulder.

            “Your first reaction was to ask if you were dead?” Bahorel asked, exchanging an odd look with Combeferre. Grantaire shrugged.

            “It was more likely than them being alive,” he said bitterly. “I have wished for my death since they died. I thought maybe my wish had been granted.” Combeferre glanced over his shoulder, meeting gazes with… Enjolras. Grantaire curled his shoulders defensively, pulling away from Jehan. They seemed to have a silent conversation, before Enjolras took a few steps forward.

            “You shouldn’t be alone,” Enjolras said briskly. “Would you like to sit through our meeting? We discuss politics and human rights.” Grantaire froze. For a moment, all he could see was Enjolras staring down the guns, Enjolras hanging upside down from the window by the flag. He swallowed convulsively. _Can’tdothiscan’tdothisnotagainnotagainpleasenotagain._

            “Come on,” Jehan cajoled. “Stay, please?” Grantaire thought it over. He could argue with Enjolras. He would never be able to convince Enjolras to step back from doing what he believed in, but he could try. He could try to protect them even. He could be better than who he was before. Make them proud. Help them live.

            “I doubt you will want me in your group, but very well.”

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably end up being a series of one-shots. I got the headcanon idea from Tumblr, and it really has not left me alone. I'm also extremely new to Les Mis, so please feel free to tell me if something can be improved upon!  
> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, nor the setting. Also, the title comes from the poem Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.


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